


Blood Of My Blood

by Anonymous



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-16 12:23:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21036200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Based on a kinkmeme prompt: After the war Theseus comes back with PTSD, and stays with Newt to recover because we all know Newt is the perfect caretaker.Whenever Theseus gets nightmares, Newt's there to hug him/sing him back to sleep. When Theseus gets flashbacks, Newt's there to calm him down in soothing voices and hair petting and all that.(Gen scenario)Theseus and Newt not being all that close before the war, due to age difference or whatever, but after living with Newt, Theseus becomes protective of his adorable little bro and appreciates his compassionate nature a lot more.(Incest scenario)After fighting in the war for who knows how long, Theseus develops an infatuation with Newt's warmth and gentleness, and starts displaying possessiveness over his little brother's attention. Whether it's one-sided or if Newt reciprocates is up to you. (Bonus for Theseus being obsessed with Newt's scent, and habitually buries his face in Newt's neck and just breathes in).





	Blood Of My Blood

The voice that called out to him in the dark would have been too soft to rouse him from sleep, if the loud steps shuffling into the room hadn't woken him up already. Like clockwork, his hands drew back the bedcovers, breathing steady; even as he braced himself against the body flung across his own without any warning. He pressed his palm to the clammy nape and drew his brother's face into the crook of his neck, feeling him inhale sharply before letting out a shuddering breath.

There were no words needed to break the silence. Some nights, having Newt in his sights was enough; being able to feel him, hear him, _scent_ him was all he needed to slip back into sleep. Others required something else, something more. Needed Newt's low humming (still loud enough to drown out his own whimpers), quietly spoken words of reassurance and gentle fingers running through his hair as ever trembling hands held the younger man in place. The worst nights were the ones where the fear meant he didn't dare close his eyes, paralyzed by the pictures in his own mind. When he couldn't speak, could scarcely breathe and all he did was bite down into the meat of Newt's shoulder in a futile attempt to abate some of the terror. (Newt had never known what it was like to be truly scared till the first time he saw Theseus in his catatonic state, eyes unblinking, mind trapped in some unknown past - and later, throat wrecked raw despite never having uttered a single word.)

Tonight, however, was not one of the nights that Newt lost his brother to the memories. He could feel the tips of the other man's fingers brush across his collarbone, over his nightshirt, in some pattern that made sense to Theseus; a clear indication that his mind was in place today. There probably wouldn't be any talking tonight and Newt was just about ready to call it a night when a gravelly whisper tore itself out of Theseus' throat.

"I’m sorry."

Newt blinked in the darkness. He wasn’t sure if he was more surprised by what Theseus said or by the fact that he spoke of his own accord. His hands stilled where they had been carding through his brother's hair as he waited for him continue. When it was clear that nothing else was forthcoming he let out a hushed "Whatever for?", unwilling the break the quiet of their little bubble.

Long moments passed and Newt resigned himself to the silence. Theseus would speak when he wanted to, and Newt would always be there to listen. Resuming his soothing strokes from hair to back, Newt began to hum, not stopping till he heard Theseus snuffling as he settled into sleep again.

***

A year ago, had someone told Newt that there would come a day when he'd be the one attempting to interact with people solely in the hopes of them leaving Theseus alone, he would've wondered (not for the last time) if he was being mocked in a way he didn't quite understand. It was funny, in the way it wasn't funny at all, that things had come to this- Newt intercepting every single guest who tried to make their way over to where his brother was drinking in the corner. Theseus, who always seemed larger than life to all around him, flinching imperceptibly at every too loud crackle from the fireplace.

There were only two ways anyone ever dealt with Theseus anymore. Their parents (like most people who had known the older of the brothers as the red cheeked, bright eyed child and later as the charming, rakish young man he was before the war; wide grin never having changed in the years) didn't know how to come to terms with the shell-shocked doppelganger left behind, and proceeded to treat him as though he hadn't changed in the slightest. That Theseus would go back to being the man who cared about nothing more than filling up dance cards and riding off into the countryside. (And he might be that man again, Newt wasn't denying that, just not now, not so soon after-)

But Newt knew for a fact that even well-meaning denial was miles better than those who thought lesser of Theseus, for not being able to cope with a war that left him almost completely unscathed. These were the people that made Newt plant himself fiercely in front of the older Scamander, remembering all the times Theseus did the same for him when they were younger. This, of course, led to inescapable situations like the one he currently found himself in. The Crerers, by virtue of their well-established familiarity with the Scamanders, found themselves unfailingly included on the Boxing Day guest list every year. Newt was aware of their youngest son’s longstanding friendship with Theseus, but he understood the latter’s need to divorce himself from others at the moment. And so, Newt, with no small amount of subtlety swooped in and tried to draw Crerer’s attention away from Theseus.

Talking to Crerer was not as awful as Newt had imagined. He was polite but not standoffish, easy-going but not callous, he didn’t mind the lack of eye contact and even seemed to show genuine interest in what Newt had to say about the proper care of horses. Newt might have passed the entire afternoon in his company, if it wasn’t for the sudden sound of breaking glass. Like a whiplash, he snapped his head around only to catch sight of Theseus rapidly walking away from a pile of shards, faint drops of blood trailing behind him like a twisted version of bread crumbs.

Uncaring of whether or not he excused himself for his hasty departure, Newt made to follow his older brother. He didn’t have to go too far. Theseus was at the back of the house, leaning against the wall while cradling his injured arm. He paid no heed to Newt even as the younger stood right in front of him.

Moments passed before Newt, as gently as he handled his creatures, held the bloodied hand in his own and examined it. It was a shallow wound, sluggish bleeding already drawing to a stop. Still, it could do with a-

“I hate it.”

If they weren’t standing so close to each other, the barely spoken words would have gone unheard. The fact that he didn’t follow up with anything didn’t bother Newt. Besides, of late, it wasn’t out-of-the-way for Theseus to cut himself off even before he began to speak. Which explained why Newt did not expect rough hands on his shoulders turn him around and _shove_ him against the side of the house.

“I _hate_ it.”

Those three words carried more vehemence that he had ever heard in Theseus’ voice. He could feel the blood smearing his shoulder where he was gripped tight but he ignored it as he waited- for his brother to let him go, for his brother to continue, for his brother to finally let out his emotions as little more than half-spilled whispers in the dark.

“I hate that I’m not what I used to be. That I don’t remember the last time food didn’t taste like ash or when I could meet and talk to people and not see pity or scorn or disappointment scrawled across their faces. I can’t sleep, I can’t even shut my eyes without thinking about fire and carnage and screams and death. It’s _crippling_. The fireplace, the hunting guns, smoke from the kitchens, Christmas crackers- there’s no knowing what sends me right back to that place, like I’m back in the trenches and I never really left. It just /chokes/ me up from the inside, Newt, squeezes out every bit of air from my lungs and I can tell that it’s going to kill me but then. Then I see you. And things right themselves again. When you’re around, I can- I can just breathe. But when you aren’t there, when I look at you all caught up in talking to oth-”

He stopped as abruptly as he started and tugged Newt’s shirt down to reveal the harsh looking bite mark left behind two nights ago, just below Newt’s collarbone. Shaky fingers traced the edges of the imprint and Newt shivered at the sting of the residual pain. He was panting just as sharply as Theseus, waiting, watching to see what he would do next, if he would-

They stood there for seconds, hours, eons before the spell broke and Theseus pulled away entirely. A rough hand stroked through Newt’s hair and cupped his cheek for a minute. “Sometimes I feel that if I have you, Newt, I won’t go completely mad.” With one last penetrating stare, Theseus retreated brusquely to the house.

Newt stayed behind with blood stains drying on his skin and the ghost of his brother’s words.

***

Night found his brother in his bed again. They had long since given up the pretext of sleeping in separate rooms, on different beds. Newt suspected that their parents were aware of this development, but as with everything else, chose not to say a word and have their suspicions confirmed. It was irrelevant though, especially as Newt didn’t see any need for their current arrangements to change in the near foreseeable future. He curled up next to his brother, letting Theseus' warmth lull him to sleep. His heavy eyes almost slipped closed when-

“Why are you still here?”

A year since he had returned home. It was the longest time Newt had spent in one single place, ever since he first left all those years ago. Home had always been the case, with his creatures – who accepted and loved him for him; and who he treasured and comforted in return. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that the situation with Theseus wasn’t any different. The need to protect and soothe and heal was the same. Only, Theseus didn’t need feeding and grooming and coddling, he just needed-

-he just needed Newt to be who he was. Newt would never deny him that, and not just because no one other than his creatures had wanted that of him before.

“Because I want to be.” And it was the truth. Somewhere along the way he, too, had learned to cherish, not the vines of fate that brought them here but these quiet moments of contentment, of irreplaceable closeness, of just _being_; without a thought to the world outside of their own.

Theseus nuzzled the soft hair at his temple, catching Newt’s scent as any of his other affectionate creatures might before trailing down to his cheek, pressing the lightest of kisses against the corner of Newt’s lips. He rolled the younger over until they were back-to-chest and swaddled him in his arms, face buried in the now familiar spot at the side of Newt’s neck; drifting off to the dulcet tones of Newt singing.

***

**Author's Note:**

> This could be seen as Gen with overly tactile Scamanders or blink-and-miss-it pre-slash. Who knows? Not me.


End file.
